


Imekari

by equiuszahhax



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, POV Second Person, THEY FALL IN LOVE AND GET A KID THATS IT, the sappiest bullshit youve ever read i s2g
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 09:45:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10874202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/equiuszahhax/pseuds/equiuszahhax
Summary: I wrote this for my creative writing class and people liked it, so I figured I'd post it here. T for language/sex mentions, but nothing explicit.





	Imekari

Under the Qun, Hissrad observed other people, learned to replicate them. Their mannerisms, the way they spoke, the way they acted. It was easier, under the Qun—structured and simple, easy to copy. Everything was planned out for him, no decisions necessary: observe; speak when spoken to; hit things. And Hissrad  _ really _ liked hitting things. 

Then you left the Qun, went Tal Vashoth, and shit got complicated. 

Tal Va-fucking-shoth. 

It was easier when you were a kid, before Hissrad became “the Iron Bull”, before Krem and the Chargers, before waking up with Dorian in your bed. 

_ Hissrad (noun): (1) keeper of illusions; (2) liar. _

 

Autumn, Year 92;

“Hey, big guy, you wanna talk about it?” you seat yourself across the table from Dorian, drink in hand, automatically reaching into the little bowl of salted peanuts.

Dorian laughs bitterly into his tankard of piss-poor Fereldan ale, halfway to sloshed already. “Family troubles. Nothing you would understand, I’m sure.”

You recognize the barb for what it is. It’s not a bad strategy to scare your opponent into showing their hand, but it only works if they fight back. So you sit, stoic, and take a drink. 

“Family shit is rough, been kicking around outside the Qun long enough to know that. We’re friends, I hope. Figured I’d listen, if you wanna talk.” You keep your voice even, low; you may not be the quietest guy around but you still notice how Dorian flinches and glances around the room when people talk about his personal life at anything louder than a whisper, scared of—what? You know he’s gotten shit for being a foreigner, and a Vint at that, but everything about him tells you this is an older hurt than Dorian likes to let on.  

Dorian’s a good person, beneath his bluster and the way he fusses over every creature known to man. You don’t say that, though—you can’t peel away the protective shell Dorian wears without tearing the skin. Not yet, at least.

He scoffs and drinks the last of his ale; his mustache is askew and you restrain yourself from reaching out to fix it. “It’s quite alright.” His voice stings of hurt, and it is clear to you that it is very much not alright. “I’ll have you know I’ve been a rebel all my life. I’m used to this.”

You smile a little. “I think I can relate to that.” You can’t, not really—you spent the first ten years of your life hunting down rebels from your homeland. But Dorian is nothing like them. You can pretend, for him. 

“As if we have anything in common.” He shakes his head as if in disbelief. “Buy me another drink and I’ll consider it.” You do; Dorian considers. 

He starts talking. 

Dorian’s father is truly very lucky he lives on the opposite side of the continent, because were he any closer he would be missing several limbs by now, courtesy of the Iron Bull. 

Months later, after things go tits-up with your homeland, you think of the tentative start of your friendship and laugh. 

_ Shokrakar (noun): (1) rebel; (2) common ground.  _

Spring, Year 93; 

It’s startling how quickly things fall into routine, especially one so alarmingly intimate. 

First: have drinks and dinner at the tavern, sometimes with your guys, sometimes without. Always with Dorian. You still drink, but no longer for the sake of being drunk; some people, you find, are better enjoyed sober. 

Second: take Dorian back to your room, fuck him however he likes. Let him take care of your bad knee afterwards. Every time he does it, you feel like a tiny place is being hollowed out in your chest, a place where Dorian resides, one that gets bigger every day. 

Third: let Dorian curl up against you and read himself to sleep. Laugh at his shitty puns, because even though they’re pretty bad, only your kadan can make puns out of advanced magical theory. You repair the hole in the ceiling because he keeps complaining about drafts; he leaves an extra jar of mustache wax in your room, “for emergencies”. 

Fourth; realize that you’ve started thinking of Dorian as your kadan. Panic. The word startles you more than anything you’ve seen on the battlefield. 

_ Kadan (noun): (1) where the heart lies; (2) beloved. _

 

Midsummer, Year 94; 

You’re so  _ big  _ compared to him. You know he’s pretty normally sized, tall even, for a human, but you still marvel at the way your hand can cover the entire expanse of his stomach. 

He laughs, eyes bright and mirthful, and presses his stomach into your hand. 

“You look pregnant,” you say, a joke, and immediately regret your words. Whatever words Dorian had prepared have died on his tongue and he looks older now, tired.

“I can’t get pregnant.” 

“I know, kadan.” 

Midsummer; a fertility festival, at least in Dorian’s homeland. Still celebrated here, there are festivities going on a floor below you. It hadn’t crossed your mind why Dorian has been so resolutely avoiding the great hall for the last week. You rub his shoulder, a soothing gesture that seems to take him out of his own head a little. “Hey, you wanna see if Cole managed to tame that rat yet?” 

Dorian finds that he rather does; the topic is dropped.  

You can’t help but turn the exchange over in your head, even as summer turns to autumn and then snow begins to fall. 

Children. 

You never really thought about it before. Then again, you never really thought you’d settle down, and you and Dorian are definitely old marrieds now. 

(Marriage is something else entirely. Legality and all that shit. You don’t need it, but Dorian might.) 

You don’t know how to bring it up without hurting him—even now his father’s scorn reaches out to touch him from across the continent, from beyond the grave.

 

Two weeks after Wintersend, a caravan rides in with a child in tow. They say they can’t take her with them; she’s an infant, probably less than a year old. 

You look at Dorian, at the way his eyes have gone soft and hopeful as he looks at the little bundle, wriggling and cooing in the merchant’s arms; then he sees  you out of the corner of his eye and seems to remember something, shutters coming down over his expression as he shrinks away. 

You smile at the merchant, utterly surprising the rest of the gathered group as you take the baby from him. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of her.”

The look on Dorian’s face is worth more than anything the Qun could have given you. 

_ Imekari (noun): (1) child; (2) hope. _

**Author's Note:**

> Lol I'm adding this like 2 yrs later cause I finally read the annotations my classmates wrote me and someone (who wasn't aware that this was fanfic) wrote this very poignant description of the Iron Bull: 
> 
> "It's particularly notable that the perspective remains with a character that seems familiar with being judged for strength and brutality, and not for making such lengthy efforts to develop an intimate relationship with a character developed as an underdog."


End file.
